


I Know It’s Cliché

by Mafief



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is Not Her Real Name, Developing Relationship, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Valentine's Day Gifts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:28:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22710013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mafief/pseuds/Mafief
Summary: Greg is divorced and single. He is perfectly fine and happy with his life. So, why did he suggest swapping Valentine’s Day gifts with Mycroft Holmes?Mycroft is perfectly fine and happy with his life. Why would he consider accepting?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 118





	1. Moon River

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of the prompt:  
> Imagine Person A and Person B are both single and decide to spend Valentine’s Day together and do all of the silly cliché Valentine’s Day things together as friends BUT somewhere between the flowers, the heart-shaped candy, the fancy dinner, and the romantic movies, they end up catching feelings for each other
> 
> Except, one day doesn’t seem long enough for these boys. 
> 
> Thanks to the ever patient and helpful thesmallhobbit for beta-ing and answering my questions about Tesco’s and shops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame it on the discount chocolates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Moon river, wider than a mile  
>  I'm crossing you in style some day  
> Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker  
> Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way_
> 
> _Two drifters, off to see the world  
>  There's such a lot of world to see  
> We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend  
> My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me_

Greg was perfectly happy with his life. If pressed, Greg would say he was fine; more than fine. He was great at his job with the highest closure rate in his division. He was a fair boss and his coworkers respected him. If asked about his personal life, he would deflect and talk about the latest football scores. It wasn’t that he had given up on finding love, he was just not actively looking. He had thought he found it once, and it had been great for a little while. No, he was content. It wasn’t like he’s highly prized dating material being a divorced, middle aged copper who was getting soft around the middle and had grey hair. 

The buzz from mobile woke Greg from his reverie. He tiredly flopped his hand on top of it before seeing who texted him. His mom was checking on his travel plans and was excited to see him. He smiled and sent a quick reply.

Greg finished the latest supply request with a flourish of his signature and added the paper to his done pile. The rest of his desk was covered in folders of paperwork followed by even taller pile of paperwork. The coffee in his mug was cold and had separated slightly. Greg considered drinking it, but instead picked up another folder. Today had not been as productive as he had hoped. His whole team had been on 24-hr on-call this week, and they had been busy. Some hadn’t had a day off in a fortnight and it was showing. The ever-present burglaries and petty thefts had increased and there had been a string of strange murders, not strange enough for Sherlock, that had included someone claiming to be sent by the Archangel to murder his neighbour.  
He switched to check on his email when he realized the time. The rest of the files will have to wait for him to return. He made a mental list of the food he’ll need to pick up at the shop. It was after Christmas and time to stock up on his favourites treats. 

Sergeant Gibson caught him in the hall. He was again wearing the out of regulation fluorescent yellow tie. “Any plans, sir?”

“Nah. Catch up on some films; gonna keep it easy for a bit.” Greg leaved off the part where he planned on lounging around in nothing but his pants. “Then making a trip to see the parents. Probably try a practice five-a-side with the mates later. You still want to be on the team this year?”

“If my shoulder will let me.”

“Your legs’re fine. Just strap it to yourself and you’ll be good to go. The Mister Meanors just aren’t the same without you.”

The Sergeant laughed. “My god, who ever thought of that name... There should be a pun jar somewhere.”

“Oi! It took me a week to think it up! But seriously Gibson, take care of yourself and when you’re feeling up to it, we’ll see you on the pitch.” 

“Got it, sir. You too. Don’t want you falling asleep on the pitch like some gramps.”

“That’s it! I’m gonna to send you to traffic.”

Collins grinned and gave Greg a friendly wave as he set off for his desk. 

“Gibson!” Greg called back. “Change your tie.” 

Greg patted down his coat one more time to make sure he had his keys, wallet, phone, and badge. Thankfully Sherlock, the bastard, hadn’t been around so he could still find his badge. 

The cold air shocked his system and he realized how tired he was. Sleep, well a wank followed by sleep, was very appealing. He picked up his pace and was thankful that his shopping would be quick, then a stop by his favourite pub, and he would be on his way to his days off. 

Tesco’s was blessedly quiet. Greg yawned before picking up a punnet of grapes. The good feeling one gets when finding a product on offer helped power him through the rest of his shopping. He placed them in the basket next to his usual ready meals. He promised himself that this year he would attempt to make more meals and try to get healthier. In the next aisle over he could slightly hear the buzz from the fluorescent lights that the piped in music couldn’t cover. He made his usual route through the aisles of Tesco’s picking up the rest of his essentials.

A Christmas song was playing from the speaker and Greg hummed along feeling a little giddy over the kinds of chocolates he hoped to find. It was childish how excited he was about these treats, but he had been looking forward to them. It had been a tradition growing up to stock up on the discounted treats and one of the few times he would let himself indulge. 

Greg walked to the seasonal aisle and stops humming. The Orange matchmakers were gone along with any boxes sporting Father Christmas or reindeer or snowman. There wasn’t a single bag of green and red treats. Instead he found their box gone along with all the other Christmas chocolates. In their place sat the sweets and chocolates covered in the reds and pinks of Valentine’s Day. 

“What the hell,” he groaned. Of course, the one other customer in the whole store happened to be walking down the same aisle. She gave him a dirty look and raised her nose as she walked briskly away. 

Greg rubbed his free hand through his hair and then scowled at the display. It was still December! Why was that out already? Why couldn’t it wait until February? Valentine’s Day treats were fine, just not now. He quickly glanced up and down the aisle to make sure Easter chocolates weren’t out yet. 

Making the rounds through more Tesco’s isles irritated him further. The fluorescent light buzz seemed louder in these aisles. It would probably be faster to ask an assistant, but that would require human interaction. He knew he is being irrational, but his tired body was doing him in. 

At the end of the aisle he found trolleys filled with discounted chocolates. Greg began rooting through the trolleys and quickly realized it had been picked over. Another yawn escaped and he gave up. He would give a couple of chocolate oranges a go. 

He paid and gathered up his things ready to go home. Outside he heard his phone ring. He juggled his grocery bags and swiped to answer before looking at the caller display. “Lestrade.”

“Good evening Detective Inspector.”

“Mr Holmes,” Greg said while crossing the busy street. “What has Sherlock got himself into? Before you ask, I’ve not seen him this week.”

“Sherlock is well. He is accompanied by John at my parent’s cottage. I made my appearance yesterday and had my fill of Christmas cheer.”

Greg laughed. Mycroft could take a cheery statement and mean the exact opposite. 

“How was your holiday?”

“S’fine. Been working mostly. Just starting my days off.”

“Ah, yes, the ever-dutiful civil servant. Are you free this evening to discuss the surveillance project I mentioned previously?”

Greg wasn’t sure if the first part was a complement or not and the request made his insides drop. ‘Course it was only a work call. It was only ever work calls. Why would anyone want him for anything else? God, he must be lonely if this was his idea of a good time during his break. “Yah, sure.”

“Detective Inspector, if it is a bad time, I can reschedule. But the timing is such where immediacy is needed.”

“I need to drop off groceries at my flat, but afterwards I was planning on going to the pub. You’d be welcome to join me and discuss the plans there.” The silence from the other side of the line concerned Greg and he quickly pulled it away from his ear to check if they were still connected. Greg grabbed his bags even more tightly and closed his eyes tight. He defaulted to just talking more and wishing the awkwardness away. “I’m... well, then again, you’re probably not the pub type and it’s the wrong type of secure. Were you wanting to talk over the phone? Are you even in London? Are you able to tell me if you’re in London? Probably not.”

“I am in London. Though not adverse, a pub is not an establishment that I frequent. Would dining at the Diogenes be acceptable? I am sure there is something that would suit your taste.”

“I’d like that. It’s not too late?”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have asked.” Greg immediately felt stupid for asking the question and hearing Mycroft’s cool return. Mycroft continued with a warmer tone, “Would you like me to order something so you can immediately eat upon arrival?”

“That’d be brilliant.”

They rang off and Greg stared at his phone in disbelief. He felt a second wind come on and was really looking forward to dinner, even if it was just to talk about surveillance. He looked up and realized he had been walking the wrong way. 

\---------------------

If pressed, Mycroft would say he was fine. More than fine. He was the best at his job, and he was not a modest person. He elucidated solutions to complex situations efficiently thus smoothing over domestic and international issues. His sharp frigid personality aided in asserting his authority over tense situations. His sobriquet of the Ice Man had been well cultivated. Only the foolhardy would have asked after his personal life - as they did not want to find themselves reappointed to some miserable and forgotten location - and the answer would have been a glacial stare.

Mycroft sat in the dark leather chair with his legs crossed at the ankle and idly rotating the remaining amber liquid in his heavy glass tumbler. His phone, the traitorous object that it was, rested heavily in his pocket. He rubbed his face with his free hand before downing the last of the liquid. 

Inviting Lestrade to share a meal should be no different from when they usually meet. It was not the product of holiday lag time induced loneliness. Simply, it was a matter that they hadn’t met this month and it was time. Besides, there was vital information he needed to pass on about the new real-time facial recognition software that was being added to the surveillance systems. It perhaps did not need to happen on Boxing Day, but it was better to check off his to-do list so he could use his brain power for more pressing matters. Seeing the Detective Inspector Lestrade was a perk and one where he did not wish to examine his motivations too closely. 

_I’m not lonely,_ he had once told Sherlock. And he wasn’t; he had plenty to occupy his time. There were files about the latest tension with the Koreans, the never-ending tension in the Middle East and others that he should keep up to date on. The daily newspapers with his favourite crossword and sudoku puzzles were piling up and were being saved for a time like this. There were books and music. He was one session of yoga away from reaching his move goals set by his exercise program. If he were truly in a creative mood, there was a sketch pad he could draw. There were multiple activities he could do and yet he had inexplicably called. 

He had come here today to get away from people and unwind from his holiday. Inviting Lestrade was the opposite of that purpose, but he found that Lestrade was an anomaly. Mycroft found that he enjoyed his presence, even if it had been only to discuss Sherlock. Occasionally their conversations had wandered into a more personal nature, and Mycroft had even found that to be surprisingly aggregable.

Mycroft calculated the time left until Lestrade arrived and called the head waiter in and ordered a chicken Kiev with whatever accompaniment of vegetable their chef suggested and mashed potatoes. When he would let himself indulge in carbs, he knew those potatoes were divine. 

Mycroft had dined with Lestrade once before and recalled his dislike for fussy food. “I want my meal to fill me up instead of having to eat again in an hour.” Lestrade had been so relaxed and flashed him that boyish grin as they discussed the fussy foods they had been subjected to at various fundraising balls and dinners. 

A knock signalled Lestrade’s arrival and he entered. Mycroft redirected the wave of deductions he observed from the physical evidence of Lestrade’s person to flow to the background. The man looked exhausted and Mycroft felt the pang of guilt for summoning him. “Detective Inspector.”

“Greg. You could call me that. It’s perfectly fine.”

“Yes, I could.” I would, too, but not now. 

Lestrade sighed. “Ok, Mr Holmes. Well I brought this to share later. S’all the spoils I could find this year.” Lestrade sat down a bright blue box on the small table between the two wing back leather chairs in front of the fire and then eyed the cloche. “May I?”

“Of course.” With Lestrade’s back turned, Mycroft lets his eyes roam over the man’s body. He had secretly indulged in a glances before, because who wouldn’t? It didn’t hurt to appreciate a fine specimen of the male form even if said male form was firmly in the heterosexual camp according to his marriage and dating experience on file. 

Lestrade settled in and lifted the cloche, releasing the trapped aromas. He hesitated slightly and looked up at Mycroft. There was concern for Mycroft’s welfare, genuine concern which he found slightly endearing. 

“Please enjoy. I’ve already dined this evening but will join you for the spoils from your trip to Tesco’s.”

That seemed to satisfy Lestrade, and he began eating. He let out an appreciative groan. “This is good. I think you’ve ruined me for Kiev from anywhere else.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but be pleased his choice for Lestrade had been met with such approval. He choose to nod his head slightly and kept himself from smiling. “The chief here is excellent. She came highly recommended and her qualifications are excellent.”

Lestrade swallowed another mouthful. “D’you help hire her?”

“Of course. This club has been arranged to my liking.” Lestrade chuckled and continued eating under Mycroft’s gaze. 

Lestrade caught his eye and smiled. “Either join me or do more talking. Maybe tell me ‘bout the surveillance system update?”

Happy to oblige, Mycroft launched into the anticipated trial run of the facial recognition software and the anticipated beta locations. 

Fed and informed, Lestrade joined Mycroft in the opposite chair in front of the fire. Lestrade opened the chocolate orange box and gave the ball a firm whack on the table. 

Mycroft started. “What was that for?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never had this type of chocolate before. You have to whack it to break apart the slices.” Lestrade opened the foil wrapping and Mycroft saw the tiny loose wedges of chocolate. 

“Cheers.” Lestrade passed one to Mycroft and he tentatively took it. 

Mycroft took a polite bite. It was not the worst thing he’d eaten, and he finished the small slice. “What other spoils were you expecting?”

“What? Oh, the chocolate. Yah, I go after Christmas each year to pick up half price chocolates. But this year it was filled with Valentine’s Day stuff. Already!”

“You disapprove of stores maximizing their shelf space?”

“No... well, we just finished Christmas; give us a little breather before switching to the next holiday on the list. Sorry. I’m ranting. Just tired after a long day.”

Lestrade stared unblinking at the fireplace before popping a chocolate orange slice into his mouth. Mycroft was pleased he looked more content now after his meal, but he noticed that Lestrade was mulling something over. 

“Valentine’s Day stuff,” Lestrade said, picking out another chocolate orange slice. “I used to love that holiday. I’d spoil my loved one even more than I usually did. Dote on them and make sure they knew I thought the world of them. It was just fun to celebrate, y’know?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure of being on the receiving end from a special someone of those items you mentioned.”

“What? No cards or flowers?”

Mycroft shook his head. “It was either not the right timing or the right type of person or the case of having that type of someone.” Loved one would have been too generous of a term. 

Mycroft wished he had something to occupy his hands. Why had he just admitted that? He kept finding himself opening up to Lestrade and wanting to talk to him. It was becoming unacceptable and something he would need to modify. Mycroft glanced at Lestrade who seemed lost in thought as he spun another chocolate orange slice around and around in his hand. Hopefully that meant Lestrade would think of something else to talk about. 

Lestrade said, “We can make an exchange challenge of sorts. Yes, exchange the most soppy and cliché Valentine’s Day gifts that we can find.”

“Me?” Mycroft was instantly wary. What was this man’s angle?

“If you’d be interested. It wouldn’t mean anything, just doing something fun.” 

Before Mycroft could ask Greg to clarify, Greg ploughed on ahead clearly starting to get anxious. “Before you reply, can we just try one? See if you like it or not. It’ll just be something to do. We could swap some traditional Valentine’s Day chocolates or sweets. You survived the Christmas chocolates I brought.” Greg flashed him a smile and Mycroft was finding himself wanting to agree. 

“Would you be repeating the orange flavoured chocolates?”

Lestrade laughed. “Ok, that wasn’t a hit. No, I’d try something else. This is assuming you’ll be around?”

Oh, heaven above, this man was persistent. “I currently have no long trips planned for the next couple of months, but that could change.”

“I get that. It’d be no problem if something did come up. So, will you consider it?”

Before he could convince himself not to, Mycroft said, “I’ll consider it.”

Lestrade smile morphed into a full body yawn. He tried to stifle it but failed. He sank further into the chair looking like he was considering sleeping there. 

“You at dead on your feet. I’ll order a car to take you home.”

“Thank you.” They slipped into silence after Mycroft orders the car, both minding their own thoughts. 

As Greg got ready to leave, he paused by the door. “Let me know your decision. It might be fun.”


	2. Sweet Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sweet Surrender – Bread_
> 
> _I'm givin' up myself to you but I didn't really lose at all  
>  I gave the only love I've known and it never hurt me to fall_
> 
> _Now that it's done, so glad you won  
>  I know our lives have only begun now  
> No more retreat, only my sweet surrender_

Greg gave up and looked at the time on his phone. 2 am. He’d been staring at the ceiling since he got home, changed, and dropped into in bed. Did he just ask the person Sherlock called The British Government to exchange chocolates and sweets? Mycroft was surely offended and will have him reassigned to Otterburn or some other remote place. He was there to talk business and there Greg went and brought up treats. In what world did he think Mycroft would ever want to do that? 

It was just supposed to be fun and a silly thing. He’d seen glimpses of Mycroft’s softer side over the years and wanted to get to know that person more. Sometimes Greg thought he seemed interested. Maybe Mycroft was humouring him, but he didn’t think he misread Mycroft’s interest. He even listened when he was ranting about holidays encroaching on each other’s territories. Mycroft had ask him to pilot the facial recognition software and had said he trusted him with it. Maybe it was just swapping favours?

Greg rolled on to his belly to try to find a more comfortable position. He had probably scared Mycroft off and all that will be left were impersonal emails from his assistants. Maybe Mycroft would ignore whatever he said, and they could go on as they usually had. But what if he accepted and maybe even let himself have some fun with it? 

This whole thought process was annoying. He was fifty-something bloody years-old, when did he revert to a teenager? Greg gave up on trying to sleep and grabbed his pillow and headed to his couch. Maybe he could drown out the loop by watching crap telly. He laid down on his brown couch, grabbed the remote to turn it on, and covered himself the fleece Chelsea blanket that his mom had given him last Christmas. 

Greg readjusted, trying to get comfortable on the sofa. The exact colour of the sofa was a little difficult to decipher; it was a beige, brown, olive-green microfiber that changed colour when you swiped your hand through it. He had picked it up second hand after the divorce and never bothered to replace it. It was a perfectly fine sofa; a little rough around the edges, but lots of life left in it. 

Greg mind was drifting, and he wasn’t watching the programme. Instead his mind focused on Mycroft. Mycroft was... was the British government and posh. And he was some scruffy, bit of rough copper. Laughter from the TV caught his attention. He firmly pushed away that thought and focused on whatever joke the late-night host was trying to make. He hoped that the Valentine’s Day commercials hadn’t started up in force yet.  
A muscle spasm in Greg’s back woke him up rudely. Groggy and disoriented, he tried to blink away the sleep. His muscles protested as he attempted to move. He heard morning talk show hosts chattering away and he used more colourful terms as he tried to move off this sofa which had moulded to his body and wouldn’t let him go.

He heard his phone buzz and stumbled back from his living room through the short hallway to his bedroom. He found the phone and noticed he had almost no battery left. It’s his mother calling and he picked up. 

Her delight was audible as she greeted him. “You will be here tomorrow! I am so excited.”

Greg smiled and then yawned. “Morning la maman.”

“Oh, Greg! You sound exhausted.”

Greg fumbled around his nightstand trying in vain to find where his charging cable has disappeared to. “M’good, la maman, just a busy week.” 

_And your son’s an idiot who put someone he considered a friend in a very awkward position and he’ll never see him again,_ he thought. “I slept on the sofa.”

“Do you still have that ratty beige one? No wonder you slept poorly.”

“It’s nice and I like it.”

“ ’course dear. I called to talk about food. I’m trying to get a headcount. Are you bringing anyone?”

“La maman!”

“Ok. I’ll put you down for one. Your brother is bringing his family, so we’ll have a full house.”

She continued outlining her plans with Greg when he felt his phone buzz and he quickly glanced to find out the caller. It was Mycroft. “M’sorry to cut you off, but I have another call that I need to take. I’ll call you right back.” He tried to end one call and pick up the other but ended up hanging up on both calls. He fumbled with the phone and it dropped to the floor. With a groan at the non-simplicity of technology, he picked up his phone and immediately called Mycroft back. 

——

Mycroft tapped his long finger against his mobile phone. He caught himself fidgeting and immediately stopped. The early morning commute was painfully slow today which was further compounded by the sleet. Even Mycroft Holmes had no control over the weather. 

He had been contemplating Lestrade’s offer after he left. It was a strange offer and not one he had been given before. It had surprised him; not many things surprise him. 

But it was only an exchange between... colleagues? Or have they moved onto friends? Mycroft frowned at the imprecise-ness of these terms. They had known each other for years and have had comfortable exchanges. Not many of their interactions had been on a personal level, but occasionally the conversations drifted in that direction. They weren’t... unpleasant. There was one memorable dinner and last night. 

He had already weighed the odds for and against the idea. The exchange was tempting because it would give him a chance to see Lestrade again. Besides, any extra sweet indulgence could be taken care of during his exercise routine. If it turned pear shape, it would be of no surprise and they could continue as they were. As Lestrade had already pointed out, there wasn’t much to lose. 

Decision made, he called Lestrade. After the first few rings, he noticed that he had been hung up on. He frowned. Well, that settles it. The decision had been made for him. He started to tuck the phone into his suit jacket when it buzzed to life again - Lestrade was calling him back. 

Mycroft took a deep breath and answered. “Good morning Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

“Mr Holmes, I was on another call and can never hit the right button to switch calls.” There was a moment of dead air before Lestrade started again. “I’m sorry ‘bout my forward suggestion yesterday. I apologize and I didn’t mean to offend.”

Ah, he regretted his decision. Best to give him an easy way out. “I understand. Are you retracting your suggestion?”

“I’m, well, no. I’m sure you are too busy. And it’s ok if you are.” 

Oh, well he had planned for this decision, too. Mycroft replied, “Detective Inspector, if it were, I would not be calling to say that I would be amenable for a trial run,”

“You, really?” There was an inhale before Lestrade blurted out “Brilliant!” 

“Would you be free this evening?”

“No,” Greg hesitated. “I’ll be back Thursday afternoon. Are you free that evening or the weekend?”

Mycroft confirmed Thursday at 8 was acceptable. 

“Great. We’ll can exchange whatever clichéd Valentine’s Day treats we fancy.”

“No other stipulations?”

“None. Whatever you want to bring will be fine. You can swing by my place. I’m sure you already have the address.”

Mycroft did, but didn’t confirm. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Greg did and then rang off. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a shuddered breath in. He willed away the wiggling sensation in his stomach and filed away these thoughts and feelings to be examined another time. His mobile buzzed with an incoming email. Now it was time to become the cold calculating political machine who was not subject to these softer feelings. By the time he walked into his office, he would be fully embodied in his work persona. 

This office was trimmed in rich mahogany wood and rich green wallpaper. The bookshelves were stacked high in books and displayed gifts from foreign dignitaries. The setting was ideal to meet with foreign heads of government who would sit in the brown leather chairs around the small coffee table and would discuss their matters with him. There were windows, unlike his office in the tunnels of Q-Whitehall which was sparsely furnished and designed to intimidate. His personal assistant Elora had already prepared tea for his arrival. She was sitting by the small conference table and was engrossed with business on her laptop when he arrived. Her black hair was impeccably styled in a low chignon today and her navy knee length dress was stunning. The TV behind her was playing BBC on mute and Mycroft noticed they were reporting on the aftermath of one of the projects he steered.

“Good morning, sir,” She said, closing the laptop and standing to greet him. She was sharp and cunning, which were necessary skills to have as Mycroft’s employee. She had enjoyed toying with John Watson and his obvious flirtation by calling herself Anthea. Mycroft could not have stopped his laughed from escaping when he found out - Anthea was the name of her childhood dog.

“Good morning.” Mycroft placed his briefcase on the table and removed his jacket. Elora took it to be hung up. He turned his attention to preparing his tea. “Where are we on Moldova?”

“The reports will be ready late this morning.”

He nodded and carried his tea to the table. Mycroft allowed himself the brief pleasure of savouring the aromatic tea and warmth. His chief of staff, Siddhartha, joined them, wheeling in a whiteboard. Diagrams of seating arrangement for the dinner were covering the surface. He mentally outlined the economic agreement to reduce investment barriers and to promote business links he had been encouraging the other British delegates to pursue. They planned to finish the agreement and sign it during the Indian delegates’ visit next week. He looked over the top of his teacup at the seating arrangement for dinner with the Indian delegates and frowned. “They sat me next to Anoushka Singh.”

“Yes, sir,” said Siddhartha, a little weary. “The one who is extremely fond of football.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Was Barkha Nooyi not attending? The one I actually need to speak to?”

“I have arranged a private meeting with her earlier in the day. It was decided that the prime minister should sit next to her.”

“And it would give him an advantageous photo opportunity for the press. Fine, keep me at the end well away from the cameras.” Mycroft took a sip of tea. “We need to outline our economic talking points for our people. Have you drafted out a response from what we discussed?”

Siddhartha nodded and produced two files from the messenger bag he was carrying. One was noticeably larger than the other. “I’ve also provided the updated information on the government officials from India.” 

Mycroft accepted the two files and Siddhartha continued his briefing. 

Afterwards, Mycroft was lounging on a sofa, reading a report of increased Russian activity near Romania. He had been like this for hours and his neck was starting to protest. 

There was a knock and Elora entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?” 

“Elora,” Mycroft said. “Make sure my schedule for Thursday evening remains clear. I would like to not be disturbed.” 

Mycroft handed her a post-it and met her with a clinically neutral gaze. “I’ll need this address secured. I should only need 15 minutes and I’ll likely go to the Diogenes afterwards.”

She raised one eyebrow when she saw the address and gave him a knowing smirk. He can see her mental gears process the information. She was efficient and capable, exactly the reasons why he hired her. She stood and said, “Yes, sir. I will have the floor above and below that particular flat secured as well.”

He turned away to retrieve the papers on the sofa and did not meet her eye. “Yes, that would also be necessary,” he said in a disinterested tone. “Very well.”

Her clicking heels signalled her departure and he sat back on the sofa. It was nowhere near the dramatic sprawl his brother has perfected, but for him it might as well be one.

By midday and countless phone calls later, Mycroft had a moment to himself and pulled up the website of his favourite chocolatier. The home page displayed beautifully coloured truffles in perfect rows. Before he could settle in, Sir Edwin called. 

“Mycroft, I am free for lunch. Would you like to join me at J. Sheekey?” 

He looked at the website longingly before closing it. “I will be there soon.”

Mycroft’s driver dropped him and his security detail off near the National Portrait Gallery and they walked through the crowds to the restaurant. Mycroft spotted Sir Edwin and they shook hands before sitting at a table. Pleasantries were exchanged over the chattering from other customers. The waiter took their order and they made small talk until their meal arrived. 

Sir Edwin took a bite of his fish and swallowed. “A matter has come to my attention and I would like you to look into it discreetly.” He slipped Mycroft a USB stick. “A senior software engineer has disappeared for three and we haven’t heard a peep from him. We would like him found, preferably alive.”

Mycroft ate another mussel and asked, “You’ve checked his flat?”

“Yes, no signs of forced entry or struggle. It appears he left for work and was planning to return home later that day.”

“Any idea why he would be a target?” asked Mycroft. Sir Edwin was spending more time looking at his fish than at Mycroft, which usually means he wasn’t telling Mycroft the whole truth. “Do you know what projects he was working on?”

“Not an exhaustive list, but he was tangentially working to your facial recognition project.” Sir Edwin looked Mycroft in the eye before taking a sip of his wine. “The information you need on John Inskip is in the drive.” 

Mycroft sipped his wine as he searched his memory for that name. He, surprisingly, found nothing. “I’ll see what I can do.”

\----- 

The next day, Mycroft was sheltering under his umbrella as he walked the last few steps from his car to the Baker Street door when his phone rings. It was the chocolatier. 

“Good morning Mr Holmes. I am returning your call and confirming your order. Is there anything else you would want to add?”

When he placed the order the night before he explained that it was for an early Valentine’s Day gift and would like an assortment of their most popular chocolate truffles or whatever is usually in a box during that particular holiday. Lestrade didn’t mention any stipulations other than cliché. Mycroft worried whether it would be an acceptable offering or if it were too impersonal. 

Mycroft studied the underside of his umbrella. The rain fell off Speedy’s awning and was soaking the bottom of his trousers. “Yes. If you happen to have any that are orange or lime or other citrus flavours, please include a sampling in a separate box.“ 

“Not a problem.”

He confirmed the pickup date and time and rang off. That was it. Done. He squeezed the phone before he took a deep breath to compose himself before talking to his brother, best not start him asking questions. He straightened the knocker before opening the door and walked up to his brother’s flat. 

Mycroft opened the door and found Sherlock wrapped in a grey sheet and laying on the sofa. Sherlock continued to remain motionless with his eyes closed not caring to acknowledge his existence. 

“Sherlock.”

“Not now. Busy.”

Mycroft highly doubted that, but at least he acknowledged his existence. “I’ll be brief.”

Sherlock opened his eyes wide before narrowing them to Mycroft. Mycroft slipped the file out of his jacket and held it out to Sherlock who didn’t react. He dropped it on the table. 

“Sherlock, I have an assignment for you.”

“You were standing outside.”

“Brilliant deduction. No wonder you are the detective in the family. How else did you think I got from my car to your...” he waved his hand around the flat. 

“I said standing, not walking. You’re deliberately being obtuse.” Sherlock jumped to his feet and began circling. “Standing for a period of some time. You could have been indecisive, but no, there’s no indication of changing locations. You stood still as indicated by the stronger rain beating down on you from the right side. It is not due to wind. Indecision would have included movement. Didn’t smoke. Were you denying yourself something you wanted? Standing on the street facing the road... so not tempted by something in the cafe. You do look distracted, dear brother.”

Mycroft nostrils flared. “Are you quite finished?”

Sherlock hummed. “No, but I don’t care enough to finish.” He walked off into the kitchen.

“The case in the file is time sensitive,” said Mycroft following him into the kitchen. “It needs your immediate attention to find a senior software engineer.” 

“I bet,” said Sherlock, turning and pushing Mycroft out the door. “Toodles.” Sherlock closed and locked the door, leaving Mycroft outside.

Mycroft huffed. “Sherlock, I will be back for updates tomorrow. Do pay attention to it.” He retreated back to his car. His phone vibrated with a new email from Elora. 

_Your location for the evening has been secured. There are a meth addict living in the floor above, some minor tax offenders, but the rest pose no threat. It will be secure for that evening._

The rest of his week flew by in a blur without further information on Inskip. He dealt with the lack staff who did not relay that information to him immediately. Thursday evening he found himself looking down at the paper bag sitting on the car seat next to him with misgivings. He felt foolish waiting outside Lestrade’s house. Were these not good enough? The point of the exchange was to go all in for cliché and tacky, but what if he misinterpreted?

Mycroft saw Lestrade walking down the street. Mycroft said, “Sam, I will most likely be back shortly. Keep the car running,” before stepping out of the car. 

\-------- 

Greg lifted his bag of groceries up a little higher as he approached his building. He saw Mycroft stepping out of a black car. Greg walked a little faster. Mycroft leaned on his umbrella waiting and it reminded him of the first time they met when Mycroft demanded to know what his intentions were with Sherlock. This time, Mycroft was holding a paper bag, albeit a posh paper bag, and wearing a much softer expression than the one he had that other night.

“Evening, Mr Holmes. Care to come up?” 

He watched Mycroft hesitate slightly before accepting. They walked into his building in silence and headed up to his seventh floor flat in the lift.

Greg opened his flat and stepped to the side. “To the right is the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room. Beyond that is a balcony.”

After dropping his bags off in the kitchen, he took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the door and reached out to take Mycroft’s. Mycroft hesitated slightly before complying. 

“I do have one rule while you are here,” said Greg. 

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. 

“You’ll call me Greg.”

Greg caught the smallest upturn on Mycroft’s mouth before it was smothered. He wondered what else he could do to get him to smile more. 

“And I’ll guess that you would like to call me Mycroft?”

“That’s be great, unless you want to be known for another name? Perhaps Myc? Micky? All seeing one?” Greg gave a smile. 

“You overestimate my influence. No. Mycroft would be fine.”

Greg gestured to his living room. “Make yourself comfortable.” He took the three steps through the doorway of the kitchen and turned to see a glimpse of Mycroft walking past. Greg leaned back against the counter and took a steady breath in and out to calm his nerves. Mycroft was here in his flat in his three-piece suit and brought his umbrella. He has brought something. 

—-

Mycroft stood in front of the hallway and was unsure of what to do next. He placed the bag with the required items on the small formica table. The wear marks indicated that this table had been moved frequently. The most recent wear marks and small jam stain indicate that the chair closest to the kitchen was used most often. The lack of other stains or further wear on the other chair meant that Greg was often eating here alone. This, of course, made sense and fit with what Mycroft already knew about the detective. Mycroft could visualize Lestrade sitting here eating toast and jam and looking at emails on his phone. 

He noticed the couch and the bright blue Chelsea logo printed across the blanket. The TV remote that was balanced on the arm had extra wear on the number two. Balance of probabilities would suggest it correlated with one of the numerous sport stations. The blanket was newer than the taupe green couch and the distinct pattern on the couch showed that it had been recently slept on. Greg had been sleeping poorly, clearly worried about something. Before he could process any further deductions, he closesd his eyes and stopped them. It was a skill that Sherlock had yet to master nor wanted his help in mastering. He opened his eyes and instead just took note of what was present. He decided to let Greg tell him about his life, well, outside of what he had in his file. 

Greg peeped around the corner oblivious to Mycroft’s attempt at deducing his life. “I’ve eaten nothin’ since lunch and I’m not counting the bag of crisps I ate as anything good. I should eat something else for dinner other than sweets. You hungry?”

Mycroft hadn’t eaten. “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“It won’t be. My mom, the ever-concerned soul, sent me home with specialty cheeses she found. I even have crackers and cider.”

“I would like that. I’ll need to make a call.”

He ducked back into kitchen and Mycroft could hear opening and closing of cabinets and the fridge. Mycroft dismissed his driver and his security personal was put on standby. This was not the evening Mycroft was expecting, but he was pleased with the development. 

Greg sat down the cheese, crackers, and two bottles of cider before going back to retrieve the rest of the supplies including a white shopping bag. Mycroft sat across from Greg who grabbed a plate and passes it to Mycroft. “Am I allowed to ask how your day was?”

“You may ask.” Mycroft began slicing one of the cheeses. “It was busy. Productive. Yours?”

Greg struggled with the crackly packaging before pulling out a few crackers. “Travel back from la maman was a mess. Everyone forgets how to drive in a little bit of freezing rain. Missed footie practice, but then what can you do?”

Mycroft hummed and started eating and focused his attention on his cracker. He should be hungrier considering what he’d eaten recently, but his stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots. He heard Greg crunch happily on his cracker.

“Now that’s over, let’s see what we’ve got.”

Mycroft redirected his gaze to Greg’s. “You had one cracker and a slice of cheese.” 

“Yup and I’m curious.” 

“Isn’t patience an important quality for an inspector?”

Greg rested his arms on the table. “It can be. But so is negotiating. How many do I need to eat before I can look?”

Mycroft froze. “I...” 

“Mycroft it’s fine, I’m just kidding.” He took another slice of cheese and cracker and ate it. Greg’s bag was retrieved and opened. He held out a roll of love hearts. “Y’know what these are?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes. It’s one thing to receive them and another to grab a roll from the candy dish in the library out of desperation. I’d eat them while studying. Never cared much for the sayings.”

“You like the taste of them?”

“No - they taste like chalk.” Mycroft opened the end of the roll and pulled one out. “GOAT.”

Greg chuckled. “My nieces tell me it means greatest of all time.”

“Hmm, evidently.”

“What d’you think? Who’s the greatest of all time?”

“In what context? Greatest poet, historian, politician, football team, musician?”

“Any of those.” Greg sat back and waved about his cracker. “What ‘bout football team?” 

Mycroft tore a little of the paper off the roll giving himself time to consider. “Manchester United from 96 to 2003. Irwin and Beckham contributed to a strong team.”

“You follow football?”

“Not extensively but keeping abreast of what interests other politicians can be helpful.” He unrolled the rest of the rest of the love hearts and sat them on the table. “I am not averse to watching it.”

Greg smiled and picked out another. 

“Date me.” Greg sat back and ate the candy. “That one got me in trouble in secondary school. I searched a few rolls for it and saved them in my pocket in. See, I had this plan to give it to a girl I fancied. When I finally got the guts it was lint covered and everything.” He laughed. “She was appalled. Her older brother wasn’t so keen on me either.”

Mycroft sorted the love hearts by colour with the sayings face down. She. Well at least his information was correct and he didn’t need to fire anyone. Mycroft picked up a white one and spelled out “U R A Q T. Oh, good lord.” He choose another. “W H U Z U P?” 

Greg bit the inside of his lips to try to stop smiling. “Whuz up? As in what’s up? How are you doing? Whuz up?” Greg exaggerated the u and Mycroft looked appalled.

“It was a commercial.” Greg laughed. “Has our cheese and cracker requirement been met? I’d like to see what you brought.”

Mycroft sat up straighter and gave him his best assessing look which Greg returned with a cheeky grin. He sat another slice of cheese and cracker in front of Greg. Greg obliged. While chewing, Greg nodded at the package and Mycroft rolled his eyes again. He lifted out two black boxes wrapped in pink and red ribbon. The smaller one he handed to Greg to open. 

Greg’s eyes widen when he saw the perfect half spheres of chocolates. Each had been decorated in swirls of either orange, yellow or green. “These look gorgeous. Like little planets. Wait a second.” He raised the box to his nose. “There are orange ones in here. You didn’t seem too keen on them the other day.”

“And I’m not, but you seem to like them. Hopefully these are an improvement on the chocolate orange you subjected me to.” Which wasn’t awful, but not something Mycroft would make a habit of eating. He continued, hating that his voice goes softer. “I brought others in case those were unsuitable.”

“These are fantastic,” said Greg, taking a bite of another one. “Christ, these are good. Please tell me you’ve tried them. Here.” 

Greg opened the larger box, picked up a heart shaped chocolate and handed it to Mycroft. Mycroft accepted the chocolate and tried to ignore their fingers brushing together. He took a bite. “It is very good. The passionfruit makes a unique combination with the dark chocolate.”

Greg ate another one, clearly savouring every bite. “Too bad cider doesn’t go so well with chocolate.”

“There are some red wines that go well with chocolate.”

“Yah, there probably isn’t anything that pairs well with love hearts.”

Mycroft felt himself smile. “Maybe. I could bring it up with the Diogenes sommelier and ask his opinion on the matter.”

Greg chuckled. “I’d love to hear that conversation. Next time we can try that and those wines with chocolates.” 

_Next time._

\----

In the years Greg had known Mycroft he could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Mycroft smile. Tonight blew that number away. He had fun and he was fairly sure that Mycroft did as well. 

“I must get going. Early meeting tomorrow morning.” Mycroft took out his phone and texted someone. Greg assumed it was his driver.

“That’s fine. Let me see you out.” At the door Greg, handed Mycroft his coat and asked “Well?” 

“Well what?”

Greg gave him an encouraging nod. “The exchange.”

Mycroft was clearly thinking back over the evening while he buttoned up his coat. “It was acceptable.”

Greg grinned. “Would you be up for another?” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“How ‘bout flowers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and flowers (maybe it should be chocolates?) to thesmallhobbit for beta-ing and going virtual flat shopping for Greg with me.


	3. La Vie En Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How about flowers?
> 
> (Note: I was distracted by Holmestice, but now I'm focusing on this fic. I've also made some changes to the previous chapters. The changes don't alter the plot, but tightens up the story a bit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And when you speak angels sing from above  
>  Everyday words seem to turn into love songs  
> Give your heart and soul to me  
> And life will always be  
> La vie en rose  
> _

On Monday, Greg ate his usual toast and jam in his usual chair seated at his usual spot on the table. The phone was propped up on his Chelsea coffee mug so he could check his emails he received over the weekend, but the sports highlights on the telly were more interesting. The women’s rugby team thrashed the Italians; he was sad he had missed watching that match, but he had finally made it to football practice. 

Toast finished, he put his dirty dishes back in the kitchen. On the counter a roll of love hearts and empty chocolate boxes sat as proof that Mycroft had been there and it was not a dream. He smiled as he grabbed his keys and wallet and went to work.

As he went through his commuting routine of riding the train, he let his mind wander - it immediately went to Mycroft’s visit. Greg hasn’t been entirely sure what to expect of the visit. Would it awkward or overly formal? The scenario he was convinced would happen was Mycroft would visit his flat, they would shake hands and exchange gifts and go on their merry way. But, no, they had talked and had something to discuss that wasn’t Sherlock or work related. It was the most relaxed he had seen Mycroft. Well, he was still buttoned up in the suit, but his demeanour had softened. Greg had liked what he saw and wanted to see more. Maybe he would see Mycroft again this week - they were exchanging flowers. 

The jostling of the train pulling into the station jolted Greg back to the present. He followed the rest of the commuters out of the train and on to the street. 

After the walking the rest of the way to work, he entered and saw a beautiful floral arrangement at the front desk. There were some spiky ball flowers and sticks with fuzz and leafy things at the bottom acting as backing stuff and other flowers types in white. He had no idea what type of flowers he was looking at, but he could appreciate the talent it took to arrange. 

He looked over the desk to see the receptionist admiring the flowers. “Morning Flora, got a secret admirer?”

“They aren’t mine; they were delivered a few minutes ago and are addressed to you. I was just about to have it checked out before sending it up.” 

Greg was fairly certain he knew who sent them, but he was still shocked. “Me?”

Flora nodded and admired the bouquets some more. “Aren’t the canna lilies gorgeous?”

Greg nodded and pretended he knew what flower she was referring to. “They go nicely with this one.” Greg pointed vaguely to the middle of the arrangement where he recognized a couple of roses. 

Flora giggled. ”Oh! Before I forget. There’s an envelope attached.”

Greg accepted the envelope and carefully opened the tab to reveal a note of heavy card stock. The handwriting in the middle was a fine, careful print. 

_I hope this makes the transition back to work a little easier. -M_

“Well, Lestrade, who’s it from?” Flora was standing and leaning over her desk expectantly. 

“Hu? A… a friend,” he said evasively; he had no interest in fuelling the rumour mill. “They’re probably fine. Tell the boys to be extra gentle and send it up when they are done.”

Greg ducked into the lift alone. He ran his hand through his hair and stared up at the ceiling grinning stupidly. Mycroft sent flowers! Nice ones, too. Greg covered his mouth with his hand and tried to put on a neutral expression when the lift door opens. 

In his office, Greg cleared off some space on his top shelf. He heard a knock and some papers fell to the ground as Gibson entered. “Woah boss, isn’t it a little early for spring cleaning?”

Greg squatted to retrieve the papers and shuffled them with the rest of their pile. He noticed that the tie was in regulation, but Gibson had added his individuality with a tie pin in the shape of a dachshund. That was barely in regulation, but he would let that slide today. 

“Just tidying before you all remind me why I needed a holiday in the first place.” Greg walked back to his desk chair and eyed the folders Gibson was carrying. “What have you been working on when I was out?

“The typical, boss.” Gibson sat in the chair opposite and handed Greg the top four files. “A hit and run, 52-year-old man found dead in house from a likely heart attack, couple of breaking and entering.” He handed Greg another file. “Traffic altercation. Man came out of van and stabbed the other. The victim died from his injuries. We are in the process of identifying the van owner.”

“That’s all?”

“You need to sign off on overtime for Detective Constable Haque and me.”

Greg distinctively remembered telling them no overtime was approved. He frowned. “For what?”

“For cleaning up after the mess you left on the pitch this weekend.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Traffic would be too good for you. I’m thinking policing every major sporting event would be better.”

Gibson grinned. “I’ll get right on filling out that form.”

“You were no better with your supposed banged up arm which morphed into a hammy injury. Why did we keep you in as the goalie again?” Greg asked.

“Because running would have aggravated everything and then where would we be?”

“What I’m hearing is that I should sign you up for the next marathon. Now out of my office and do something productive.” 

The flowers arrived in the afternoon looking no worse for their in-depth inspection. Greg had finished a decent amount of paperwork and treated himself to his favourite curry. Between bites Greg texted Mycroft a picture followed by a message. 

_Looks amazing! You around? Can I call?_

——— 

On Sunday, Mycroft was reading the latest report from Moldova, and Moldova was going to be a problem. Mycroft had spent his weekend in his home office reviewing reports that Moldova would change from something semi-stable to unstable, thus derailing his plans. He quickly typed out a list of people to meet with next week and sent the email to Siddhartha to arrange it. Hopefully, a resolution would come without him accompanying a diplomatic team for an on-site visit. 

An email from Elora arrived with his new itinerary for the week. His usual tight schedule was even more demanding with the negotiations for the trade deal with India requiring additional meetings, official dinners, and a further black-tie event. 

Mycroft slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His body feels stiff from not moving for so long. Perhaps shortening his yoga session this morning wasn’t the best idea. He was done with what was available and was waiting on others. Maybe he could take a break. Mycroft felt an overwhelming urge to move and have a change of scenery. He would usually ignore this urge, but he still needed to choose flowers for Greg. He further rationalized that free time would be extremely limited because of the visit of the Indian delegates and the growing problem in Moldova. Outsourcing ordering flowers to Elora was out of the question. 

He called to notify his security detail of his desired change in location. They confirmed and sent a driver for him. 

Mycroft took in the store’s front from beside his car. A white spray of flowers frames the doorway below a black sign carved with fine gold letters. The faint flower scent and sophisticated colour combinations invited potential patrons on this street in Belgravia to come in. He reminded himself that he was here for something traditionally given at Valentine’s Day. Red roses or anything else in red and heart shaped would likely be the best item to fulfill that requirement. This should be easier than negotiating with bureaucrats. He straightened his posture and walked in.

The humidity was the first thing that greeted him when he walked through the door, followed by the overwhelming floral scent. He could detect roses, lilies, gardenias and hyacinths. The air here made him feel as though he just walked into spring.

The shop keeper greeted him while he was perusing the low shelf that spanned the length of the store. The shelf was neatly covered with cylindrical clear vases displaying flowers of every type imaginable. The store boasted the best assortment of seasonal flowers. The sight was gorgeous, but he refused to let himself gawk. He had a task to accomplish. 

At the front desk, the shop keeper was assessing a complicated looking bouquet.

“I would like to purchase a Valentine’s Day flower arrangement.”

“Certainly, sir! We can do that for you. Please follow me and we can discuss your order in the back.”

As they walked, she explained how the shop only sources the best flowers and directly imports them. All of their bouquets and arrangements were made to order. Throughout her explanation, Mycroft wondered if this level of involvement was what Greg had been expecting. Mycroft was led through to the back of the shop where there were metal chairs around a small metal table. The florist indicated a seat to Mycroft before she sat down a tablet. Mycroft sat, feeling a little out of place in this situation. 

The florist’s smile was professional and inviting, “My name is Helen. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft pulled his leather gloves off and loosened his scarf. 

“You are here for a Valentine’s Day gift, Mister…” She looked up expecting him to reply. 

“Holmes. Yes, An early Valentine’s Day gift.”

She cooed. “That is so romantic. What are you envisioning for the arrangement?”

Her eyes were bright, and she was poised, ready to take in any information. Mycroft paused and said in him most businesses like voice, “Whatever is typically given on Valentine’s Day will suffice.”

“I’ll show you what we had available last year. I don’t think we’ve finalized our designs for this year.”

She turned on the tablet and showed him their rose offerings, highlighting the qualities of each arrangement. He didn’t like any of them. Yes, they fit the requirements of the exchange, but it felt off. 

“Are any of these to your liking?” She tentatively asked. 

“They are nice, but they are too extravagant for his taste; it’s not right.”

“We can make a more personalized arrangement. Can you tell me a little more about the person? Their personality? Likes and dislikes?”

Mycroft paused unsure of what to say. He knew the answer to some of these questions but there was still a lot about Greg that he did not know. This was assuming that Greg would wish to deepen their association. Did Greg want him to know more?

She must have sensed his distress because she sat down her pen and asked carefully. “How’s this: is there an approximate size you were hoping for?“

Mycroft pictured a human sized arrangement in a large urn arriving at Scotland Yard causing Greg to cringe in embarrassment and cancel any further interactions. A single bud might also be met with mockery and not fulfil the requirements for this exchange. “He’s likely to prefer something smaller and understated. It’ll be sent to his work.”

“Can you tell me what he does?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but it felt like he’s letting her in on his private thoughts. It felt invasive. He shifted slightly in his seat as he described Greg aloud to a complete stranger. “He’s an inspector at Scotland Yard. He is practical and reasonable.”

Helen tapped her finger on her lower lip before speaking. “Large bouquets of red roses are typically associated with Valentine’s Day, but if he prefers something less showy, we can design something else. Winter is cool and a white to pale colour palette is appropriate.” She changed programs on the tablet and began sketching. “We’ll choose the orchids for their elegance; the alliums will give some drama. Pussy willows too for texture and to remind us of spring. Canna lilies opposite to balance the height and some gorgeous roses tucked into the bottom to help the eye move across the piece.”

“It would still be considered appropriate for Valentine’s Day?” Mycroft asks tentatively.

“Yes. I’m of the opinion it’s fine to deviate from the cliché, especially when it’s something better suited for the person. The piece for the inspector is understated in its depth and beauty. Not overly flashy or a statement piece but has classy refinement in its simplicity.”

She finished her sketch and handed it to him. “We’ll likely add more blooms and greens in the chosen colour palette as needed, but this is the general look.”

Mycroft had barely heard what was being said to him as he looked at the sketch. This one was right. 

“Would you like to change anything?”

“What? Oh, no. This is... good.” He scheduled delivery, wrote a brief note, and handed Helen his credit card.

After processing the card, she gave him a reassuring smile and said, “It’s such a sweet gesture. Don’t worry; he’s going to love it. You’re such a caring and loving partner - he’s so lucky to have you.”

He was unsure of what to say, so he put on a polite smile, took back his card, and quickly stepped out of the shop. The driver’s door opened when he reached the car, but he didn’t wait for Sam to open the passenger door. In the solitude of the car, he took in a long uneven breath, exhaled, and took in another one. He was not fleeing, he told himself. He was only being efficient with his time. 

The partition rolled down and Sam’s asked, “Sir? Where would you like to go?”

“Home.” He needed to think. 

At home, Mycroft made himself tea and sat in the study. He placed the cup on the small table next to the leather armchair. The jitteriness refused to be been tampered down even after the routine of tea making. The perfectly made tea was unappealing. He opened the drawer and took out a cigarette pack and lighter. While the day wasn’t very warm, he still opened the nearest window before he lit up and inhaled. He let the chemicals flooding his system calm his nerves. 

The shop keeper was only being polite; making assumptions with the limited data available. But a partner to, to Greg? He huffed. Partner. This exchange was challenging his long-held truths and stirring up in him a hope he had locked away. Even the accidental hand brush had sent his senses into overdrive. It was giving him a taste and now he wanted it more. He shuddered at the thought and took in another drag. He exhaled slowly and watched the smoke escape out of the window. 

What had he got himself into? Yes, he wanted to see Greg more, which was the reason he accepted. Who wouldn’t? Greg was an attractive man. Besides that, he was interesting.

Mycroft wondered at Greg’s motivation and what he was getting out of it. What was the end goal? Greg must be getting something out of this exchange. Perhaps Greg was only being convivial, and he happened to be the next target. Mycroft was just letting some clichéd emotional response to cliché items associated with that clichéd romantic holiday cloud his judgement. There was likely some angle, because why else would Greg be interested?

Mycroft’s mobile buzzed; Elora had sent him another updated itinerary. He scrolled through the email not really seeing it. He stubbed out the cigarette in an ash tray he kept by this window. That was quite enough mental masturbation for now. No point running the same worries over and over hoping to get a better result. This week required his full attention, and whatever happens with the flowers was no longer in his control. He should focus on work. 

\-----  
On Monday, Mycroft took his usual lift ride to his office. He would not think about the flowers arriving or their reaction. He had to focus. The lift opened to a very excited Siddhartha talking to Elora who was typing on her phone. “...of these fancy dinner parties. Their dumplings are to die for.”

Elora and Siddhartha had started this habit of ambushing him at the lift and today was no different. He decided, again, not to discourage the habit. He quickly scanned over them taking notes of their weekend (spent much like his), quality of sleep (limited), and breakfast (whatever was downstairs in the cafeteria). 

Elora looked up from her phone to greet him and his aides trail behind him like he was some mother duck.

“Sir,” Elora said. 

Mycroft dreaded that tone which could only mean... “The prime minister wants to discuss the trade agreement.”

She had worked with him far too long not to be startled by that declaration and her steps remained consistent. “He has requested a meeting in his office as soon as possible. Would you like me to clear your schedule?”

“I’ll assume that you said I was unavailable with the trade negotiations he agreed to task me with.”

She shot him a look. “Yes. He was rather persistent.”

They reached his office and Mycroft opened the door. Mycroft responded over his shoulder as he entered. “The Prime Minister wants to feel like he is involved in something he had little input in besides sign off on the work we had done. He is nervous and will likely try something to feel useful.” 

He removed his jacket and Elora took it. “Fine, I will humour him. Make it right before an important meeting he is required to attend. I would hate for our conversation to go on too long and he miss something important.” 

Mycroft sat his briefcase on his desk. “Elora, make sure we see his speech before he gives it. I wouldn’t want him to say something to jeopardize the agreement.”

Elora nodded and exited, leaving Mycroft with Siddhartha. 

“Siddhartha, do you have...”

Siddhartha handed him two files. “The latest in Moldova. Chatter and movement have increased from the pro-Russian groups in Transnistria. They are up to their usual of demanding independence from Moldova with protests. Some of these protests have led to fires which the country has a difficult time controlling due to poor infrastructure. Their latest trick is broadcasting propaganda and interfering with the pro-western TV programs.”

“Thus, increasing instability and civil unrest. See if you can set up a meeting with Moldova’s ambassador. Let’s see if we can do something to keep that part of Europe stable from here. I would like to not make a sudden trip out there.”

Elora returned with a piece of paper. He quickly scanned through the latest report of his brother’s movements. This information would have been cheaper to attain with the use of his new facial recognition software. Curious, Sherlock hadn’t left Baker Street since he visited. 

Noticing where he was in the report, Elora said, “I did have our techs check that all cameras were functional, and everything was in working order.”

Mycroft accepted that and returned to the Moldovan report. Sherlock was purposefully ignoring what he said, but his own hate of boredom and curiosity would soon win out. “Let me know as soon as he leaves and to where.”

Accustomed to his nonverbal dismissal, both aides left Mycroft to his thoughts. Before he could get comfortable in his chair his mobile buzzed. It’s an email confirmation the flowers have been delivered. 

What’s the protocol when you receive flowers from your not quite friend slash acquaintance? Did you make contact immediately or wait? Greg should be at work but hadn’t called. He was probably delayed by a case or slow in-house deliveries. Mycroft sighed. There was too much uncertainty around this whole exchange. With an effort, he dragged his thoughts back and mentally berated himself for being distracted - he had more important things to focus on, like work. His phone buzzed with an incoming appointment. Unfortunately, soothing the ego of a politician in thirty minutes was first on his schedule. 

After a busy morning, he was using his free fifteen minutes in the afternoon to read the minutes from the textile trade negotiations when his phone buzzed. There was a new text from Lestrade. He sat back and readied himself for the worst. 

_Looks amazing! You around? Can I call?_

Amazing? Wanting to communicate? Before he could think not to, he called. 

“Mycroft! That was quick.”

“Lestrade.”

“Nope, it’s still Greg. I’m definitely Greg if it’s regarding our exchange.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Hello Greg.”

“Hello Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft huffed and he could hear Greg’s muffled chuckle. 

“Mycroft, these flowers are great. I don’t know what most of them are called, but they’re pretty.”

How Greg said his name caused his thoughts to stutter a little. It sounded… Fond? “I’m glad to hear that you like them,” he said a little stiffly. That clench in his stomach that had developed whenever he thought about the flowers began to relax. “They fall within the parameters of the exchange?”

“Of course. You get full marks for completing the task.”

“You’re making fun of me now.”

Greg laughed. “Only a little, it’s fine. They are very nice. My office now smells of flowers instead of old coffee and stale sweat.”

“You might want to consider airing out your office more often.”

“Comes with the late nights and not enough time to do anything.” There was a short pause before Greg continued. “Hey, you allowed packages to be sent to your office?”

“Depends on the item. I assume you would like to reciprocate, and flowers could be cleared.”

“Can I send some for tomorrow?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I may not be around to receive them, but they will be appreciated when I do.”

They rang off and Mycroft looked across his office unseeing. He smoothed his hand down his jacket and notes that his hand trembling slightly. He’s not sure what to feel. Relief? Hopeful? Enamored? Some other sentiment that was anathema to him? Mycroft realized he was still smiling and immediately stopped. Burying whatever this was and not addressing it was appealing.

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft smoothed out any other expression on his face. “Yes, Elora?”

“The Moldovan ambassador was here to see you in the conference room. Tea has been delivered.”

“Of course. I’ll be there shortly.” Right. Burying and not thinking about it would win for now. He had to focus on the internal politics of another country that will, in the long run, be a useful economic ally. 

He stood and saw that Elora was still in his office holding a formal looking report. “Yes?”

“I’ve compiled the latest football news for you to pursue before tonight’s dinner. He was rather taken with your thoughts on the latest games.”

He accepted the report and placed it on the other stacks that have been growing throughout the day. Knowing something about sports did ease the political process just a bit. Just like his knowledge of ornithology he picked up to gain favour with another influential politician who happened to be an avid birder. These and other facts were neatly stored away in his highly ordered brain. His brain did not need the disruption caused by one Greg Lestrade. He felt a pain in his chest at that thought and he ignored it. 

Ambassador Maria Vatamanu was waiting for him in one of the smaller conference rooms. She was already sitting in one of the red leather high back chairs. Her short black hair hung in front of her face as she looked at her phone. She pocketed her phone and stood to greet him. She was young, but not newly appointed to this post. Mycroft’s research indicated that she was passionate and very concerned with the stability of her country. Her father had died in the Moldovan armed forces and her mother was a schoolteacher. 

“Ambassador Vatamanu, it was nice of you to come at such short notice,” Mycroft said in Romanian and extended his hand. 

Maria’s keen eyes assessed him as they shook hands. “It’s not every day that a shadow materializes,” she replied in English. “I have heard rumours of you, and here you are.” 

“Most of it is just that - rumours.” Mycroft gestured to the chairs. “Please, join me.” 

They both take their seats. Mycroft began pouring the tea and ensuring it is the way she requested.

After taking a sip she asked, “What is it that you wish to speak about?”

“The escalation of unrest in Transnistria,” said Mycroft. 

She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “There has been unrest in that area since the war. This is not new.”

Mycroft sipped and looked at her over the top of his cup before replacing it in its saucer. “True. Didn’t the treaty during the summit require the removal of Russian troops from that area?”

She put down her cup, no longer interested in her tea. “What is your point?”

“I have heard there is an escalation in new troops moving in, increased chatter to the remaining troops, gang violence, propaganda... need I go on?”

The ambassador eyed him carefully. “My reports have said no such thing.”

Mycroft sat back and steepled his hands. “They will.”

She looked unnerved. “Who are -“

“Our interest is in keeping democracy in the area and foiling Russia’s attempt at undermining Moldova’s sovereignty. I am sure this is a mutual interest. A war does more harm in this situation. We offer our support in stabilizing the infrastructure by offering equipment and economic development.” 

She sat back. “And what would the British get from this generous help?”

“A favour when Britain agriculture and food businesses want to grow their business in your country. Among other things.” He left off the part about the US fears of a Russian invasion and their desire to build a base.

“Of course.” She stood, leaving her tea unfinished. “I will check your information.”

“Here,” Mycroft handed her his card, “reach out to me when you have an answer.”

She took the card. “We will see if you are needed. Goodbye Mr Holmes.”

—— 

Greg found the number of a nearby florist and it was a simple matter of ordering two dozen red roses to be sent tomorrow. Nothing said cliché Valentine’s Day gift like red roses. 

——-

It was 3 o’clock and Mycroft had sat through several non-stop meetings and none that he could delegate. The schedule from his usual duties and the additional ones from the trade meetings with India meant that there had been barely time for a break to the loo. Barkha Nooyi, the chemical industry representative, had skipped the meeting with the British delegates and himself. Instead, she had sent a representative of the fishing industry who spent the entire time explaining the latest developments in aquaculture. Mycroft had wanted to leave, but the British delegate were encouraging this useless conversation and wanted Mycroft’s extremely valuable input. He escaped to his office as soon as possible.

“I will pay you for those chocolate croissants,” he said.

Elora looked up from her desk and pushed the plate with two croissants towards Mycroft. “Going that well?”

Mycroft nodded. He took a bite and swallowed. “I will fire whoever put today’s schedule together.”

“You would miss the pastries.” Elora gave him a cheeky grin. 

He glared at Elora in mock annoyance. “Fine. All of our projects in a completely different time zone will be led by that person.”

“Business as usual, sir?”

“Quite.” He took the second croissant.

“The rest of your lunch has already been delivered to your office as well as an update on your brother.”

“Thank you. I would like to not be disturbed.”

Now was the only break he had all day and he retreated to his office instead of the quiet comfort of his usual haunt: the Diogenes. Elora didn’t question his change in lunch locations as it was the logical next step when one was informed there are roses, red roses, in their boss’s office. Just another example in his ever-growing list of changes caused by one Greg Lestrade and his exchange. 

The roses were placed on his desk next to his lunch. His stomach rumbled and he unwrapped his lunch and ate it. The second croissant sat close for an after-lunch treat. 

Mycroft chewed and considered the flowers. These followed the rules of the exchange. He had over thought and had been moved by sentiment. Greg was only being kind about his inappropriate gift. 

Mycroft read the card. _“Next time we’ll exchange in person. Let me know when you are free. -G_

He sighed and called Greg. 

——— 

“They could just be a thank you from a member of the grateful public.” Greg leaned back in his desk chair and folded his arms. John’s attention bounced from Greg glaring to Sherlock rolling his eyes and huffing. 

“No, you’ve regrettably been on holiday, which is an unfortunate habit that you indulge in.”

“Oi!”

“They aren’t typical flowers for a thank you. Tulips, daisies, roses, even sunflowers are more typical of expressing. This was designed especially for you. There are blatant examples of masculinity.” Sherlock walked closer to the flowers and pointed to the white flowers that were attached to a long stalk. “These are orchids. Orchid comes from the Greek word órkhis meaning testicle and are a symbol of virility.” He pointed to another. “The cylindrical spike of the Anthurium is rather phallic looking, again suggesting manliness.”

“Sherlock...” John warned. 

“What?” Sherlock’s expression was the same one he used when he did not understand some social norm. Greg was very used to this one. Before anyone could comment, Sherlock continued, “Flowers themselves are the reproductive organs of a plant. Thus, it makes sense why they are given as a romantic gift as a prelude for -“

Greg cuts in. “Anything special about the greenery? Anything at all?” 

“Of course not. They are not the focus and are there to offset the flowers.”

“Oh, thank god.”

“The arrangement also contains expensive flowers from a high-end florist. This one likely cost a few hundred pounds. Someone is trying to impress you, for whatever reason.”

Greg stared up into the ceiling - he needed a moment to file away the deluge of information. “Is there any reason you are here? Any really good reason before I throw you out of my office?”

Sherlock‘s voice sounded confused. “I’m here to see if there is anything you would like my assistance with, isn’t that obvious?”

At that, Greg stopped his study of the water spot on the ceiling and inspected Sherlock before replying. Nothing was ever simple with Sherlock. “No, we don’t need your help. It’s routine stuff. Nothing you’d be interested which was why I haven’t texted you.”

“He needs a case,” said John a little desperately. He silently mouthed ‘please’. 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. Greg huffed and wondered when he started to roll over so easily. “Fine, have it your way. But if you utter anything about this being boring or your bloody rating scale, you’re out.” 

Sherlock nodded. While handing Sherlock the file to each case, Greg described the perfect ordinary crimes that his perfectly capable unit was working on. Sherlock flicked through them uninterested, as Greg expected, but remained silent.

At last they were at the end and he could get Sherlock out of his office and process whatever that was about the flowers. Did they really cost that much? Greg handed over the last file about their hit and run. 

“John Inskip died of a hit and run. Plates of the driver are fake. Not sure of the motive, but we are reviewing the CCTV now. Should get answers soon enough.”

Sherlock focused on that file. Before Greg could think too much about why this one was of interest, Greg’s mobile buzzed. He glanced at it and saw it was Mycroft calling. 

Sherlock’s attention flicked up to Greg and then back to the file. “And that would be the flower sender. I’m not staying around here while you make that... face. I’ll be in the morgue looking at this one.”

Sherlock did an immediate about face and John shrugged apologetically before following. 

Greg quickly walked around his desk and answered the phone as he closes the door. He leaned his back against the door. “Hey, Mycroft.” 

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, your brother just left.”

“Ah, my condolences.”

Greg huffed. “Yah, he was his usual self. I am sure you didn’t call to talk about him.”

“I did not. I called to say I received your gift.”

“And... let me guess, they’re in some spooks office hidden away from everyone?”

“No, the red goes well with my office decor. They are nice and a novelty I’ve not received before.”

“I’m glad to be the first.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the door. “Sherlock, umm, mentioned something about the flowers. The ones you sent me. Even I can tell they aren’t some common arrangement from Tesco’s.“

“The florist was highly rated, and I’ve noticed their work from other functions. The arrangement was designed especially for this purpose.”

Greg was not sure what to say. 

“My apologies for making you uncomfortable.” 

“No, yes. Well, no. I just haven’t been given a gift like that before.” Greg ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just that I can’t reciprocate to the same level.”

“I was unaware that this was a competition. Have the rules changed again?”

“It’s not a competition.” It was just exchanging a cliché Valentine’s Day gift with someone who was in a completely different socioeconomic level. 

“Let me reassure you that I do enjoy my gift and, unless I am mistaken, you seem to enjoy yours.”

You bloody well know you’re not mistaken, Greg thought. Instead he said, “Good. There needs to be some sort of cap if we want to do this again.”

“If you insist, but this is really a non-issue.”

Greg’s felt a twinge of annoyance at that. “I’m not sure -“

“Excuse me for a moment.” Interrupted Mycroft. 

Greg heard the muffling from clothing and another voice. 

“I must cut our conversation short,” said Mycroft. “Other matters need my attention.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Greg hung up and stared blankly at his mobile. What should he do about that now? A pint seemed like the perfect thing to smooth out this awkwardness and let him think. Before he could even check the time, there was a thumping on his door. Greg opened the door to find Gibson in his jacket looking very energetic. 

“Come on boss. There’s been multiple stabbings reported in Bromley.”

So much for the pint and thinking this all through. 

—-

The last day of the negotiations had gone as expected and the new treaty was signed. Most parties in attendance whose goals aligned with Mycroft’s came away happy. The Prime Minister had held a press meeting, outlining the deal and enjoying photo ops with the delegates. He was using every opportunity to promote the positive angles of this deal. Mycroft gladly stayed in the shadows away from the press. It was much easier to do his job away from the public.

The floral centrepieces decorating the room were designed by the same florist Mycroft visited and he was dutifully ignoring them. He was ignoring the pastels colour palette they used. He was ignoring how the centrepieces drew your attention to their dramatic height and size. He was ignoring their showiness and instead focusing on the guests.

His aides flanked him and were partaking in the champagne one of the waiters brought over. Everyone in attendance was dressed in their finest. The women delegates from India who dot the crowd in their brightly coloured sarees were a welcome break in the sea of black tuxes and dark dresses. Barkha Nooyi, wearing dark shades of green accented in gold, was glaring at him and immediately turning away when their eyes met. Mycroft wondered if she’ll continue to do so throughout the dinner. She was rather upset that Mycroft had ambushed her during her scheduled meeting with the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister was eager for Mycroft’s plan for chemical trade with India to proceed and was happy to use some of his time to persuade her.

Siddhartha was practically bouncing on his toes looking around the room “They have the best dumplings. Have you tried them?” He finally caught sight of the desired hors d’oeuvre and left before they could answer. Elora and Mycroft exchanged glances as Siddhartha wove his way through the crowd. 

“He will likely bring one back for you.”

“And why would he be possessed to do such a thing?”

Elora toyed with her champagne glass and slipped before replying. “He might have had encouragement to share his enthusiasm with someone with the same interest.”

“Elora...” 

Their mobiles buzzed. Elora flicked through hers with impressive efficiency. Mycroft looked through his emails and a message marked as urgent caught his attention. It was a request for him to leave tomorrow for Moldova from the Ambassador. They had finally seen reason, he thought, and hopefully they have not waited too long. He could make his escape now and get a little bit of rest. There wasn’t anyone here he desperately needed to talk to and he had stayed long enough to politely make his leave. 

“I can cover if needed.” Elora said without looking up from her phone. 

Loud laughter broke through the noise and Mycroft looks up to see the Prime Minister laughing with some of his cabinet supporters whose departments would benefit from the new treaty. 

“Book my flight to leave in the morning.”

“Already done. I have also booked Siddhartha,” Elora said, her concentration not leaving the device. “Your driver will see you at four.”

Mycroft was almost at the door of the great room when he felt a hand wrap around his arm. He turned to see a man he had not thought about in a long time. It came as no surprise to see him at a dinner party for a trade treaty. They had worked on multiple projects in Morocco together including bringing mobile phones to many African nations. It had been a gruelling amount of time to make the necessary arrangements. He was brilliant with economics and they had made an excellent match. 

His dark brown eyes met Mycroft’s and he smiled. His teeth were bright against the darkness of his skin. Mycroft knew those eyes, the feel of that mouth, and the contrast his ghostly paleness against the smooth brown skin. Raheem Sharif was not someone you could easily forget. 

“Easy there, Mycroft.”

“Raheem, it’s good to see you.”

“Brilliant work with the trade agreement. It had your signature efficiency and long-term thinking written all over it.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. My role was purely advisory.”

Raheem laughed. “Of course, of course. So, tell me when we will work together again.”

“I’ve done my part with that assignment and have other matters that require my attention. Would you like me to make introductions for you at a later date?” 

“Hmm, no. I have another proposal and I think you would be very interested in this project. But that can wait. I was hoping to talk with you privately, and as usual you are very hard man to pin down.”

Mycroft caught a gleam in Raheem’s eyes. “I have been busy and was not in need of our... association.” 

For Mycroft, sex was there to satisfy some animalistic yearning or further some political position. It was a tool, and nothing else, to satisfy a mutual itch or gain favour. Sentiment did not enter the equation. His association with Raheem was convenient then and now no longer. He was symmetrical and thus fitted into the classic presentation of beauty. Today was no different; he knew how to dress himself to show off his broad shoulders and narrow hips. It had been no hardship to indulge his baser instincts with this man. 

Raheem gave him a knowing smile. “Ever the strategist. Giving just enough of a taste of something desired to drive up demand.”

Mycroft frowned slightly. “What did I ever see in you?”

“Easy,” said Raheem and he stepped into Mycroft’s space and whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “My mouth is rather talented. I could demonstrate, if you’d forgotten or, perhaps, you’d like a repeat of last time.”

Mycroft had a flash of gorgeous warm brown back he had pinned against a bed with his sweaty hand as he pressed into that tight heat. Mycroft clenched his hand to try to control his involuntary physical reaction. 

Mycroft felt his phone vibrate with a text message. “I’m sorry, but I need to get this.”

“Duty calls. I‘ll see you next with the proposal plans.”

Mycroft gave him a polite smile and headed to the cloakroom. He retrieved his coat and walked outside to find his driver already waiting for him. 

In the car, he took a deep breath before looking at the sender of the text message – it was Greg. 

_Hey Mycroft! You around?_

Mycroft considered ignoring the message when another comes through. 

_I got something else for the flower exchange._

_It’ll keep, but maybe you want it sooner? I have some time this weekend_

Cut flowers don’t keep. What keeps? Balance of probabilities suggested a living plant which was not better than flowers. If its care was left to him, the plant would be dead within a week. Maybe a cactus would last longer, but it would still suffer. All die, but there was no need to be the one to hasten the ultimate end for the plant. Best to politely decline the gift and hope it would go to someone who had a personal life. He should return Greg’s call and explain that to him. 

——

Greg sat the phone down quickly on the counter near the microwave. He heeded to get away from the phone before he did something he would regret; he walked to the fridge. Greg couldn’t resist glancing back at the mobile before pulling out a ready meal from the freezer. The phone sat on the counter below the microwave which meant he would be by it again. If he was by it again he would be tempted to text Mycroft again. His first text to Mycroft was what sent him over here to fetch dinner and leave his mobile behind, so he wasn’t tempted to look at it again or, god forbid, immediately text Mycroft again. Once was enough. Mycroft would get there when he gets there and there was no reason to make oneself a nuisance. 

Greg tossed the packaging in the bin and put the ready meal in the microwave. 

I can be by the phone and not touch it. Now how long do I set this for? he thought. Coming up blank, he groaned and fished the packaging out of the bin. He sat the timer for four minutes thirty seconds. 

Greg had four minutes thirty seconds to ignore his phone. He made it to four minutes before picking up his phone. No response. 

In an effort to show more restraint, he walked to his table and left the phone there. He could not look at it until after he ate. In the kitchen, he grabbed a beer and waited for his food to finish. 

He thought a little about what Sherlock had said. From Greg’s experience with Sherlock, not everything Sherlock blurted out of his was correct; this could be one of those times. Besides, why would Mycroft try to impress him? He was, well, him and Mycroft was the British Government. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Sherlock’s other deductions.

The microwave dinged and his fingers got slightly burnt when he moved the food to his plate. Greg broke his own rule and checked his phone as soon as he sat his food and beer down. There was still no reply. Which he expected because Mycroft was a very busy man and he should be eating so he could text him again. 

Today he had been out working another case and saw the item in the window. It was perfect for this exchange, even more so than the red roses. Which were fine, but this was even better. Mycroft had given him a personalized gift and he could return it in kind. 

Food eaten, he texted Mycroft again and he brought his plates back to the kitchen for a wash. From the kitchen he heard a buzz and quickly ran back.

“Hey Mycroft!” exclaimed Greg. 

“Greg, I wanted to let you know that I will be unavailable for an unknown period of time.”

Greg slumped against his table. “That’s fine; the gift can wait.”

“About the gift. I may not be the best choice to give a potted plant.”

“It’s not living.” Realization dawned on Greg. “Ha! You guessed.”

“I never guess.”

Greg snorted. He had heard that exact phrase in that exact petulant tone from the younger Holmes. “And Sherlock’s never stolen my badge. If you’re curious enough I could bring it to you now.”

“As much as the mystery tempts me, I am not home.”

“Oh, well, as I said, it can wait.”

Mycroft’s voice was tentative when he asked, “Would it be acceptable for me to meet you at your flat? I cannot stay long.”

“That would be great.” Greg heard the phone being muffled and low voices. 

“Ok, I’ll be there shortly.”

When Mycroft arrived at his door, Greg was momentarily stunned. 

“May I come in?” asked Mycroft, pointing his umbrella. 

Greg stepped aside. He had seen Mycroft in different three-piece suits, but never in a tux. He could see the bow tie peeking out under his coat. He looked polished and put together, even at this hour of the night. He couldn’t help staring. 

Mycroft gave him a puzzled look. “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” Greg managed to say. “You look good.” 

Greg turned away to get the box so he didn’t see Mycroft’s expression. “Did the event go well?”

“It was tolerable.”

Greg took a second to calm himself before he turned around and handed Mycroft the box. 

Mycroft hooked him umbrella over his arm and opened the box. He lifted a clear vase filled with small paper roses. Each rose was made of pages from a book and accented with a gold button in the centre. 

Greg ran a hand through his hair. “I realize you are busy and travel and may not be around to appreciate flowers before they die. These would stay the same and no feelings like you’ve missed ‘em in their prime."

“What text was sacrificed?” asked Mycroft, studying the flowers. 

“Well, that’s the whole reason I went with these.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

Greg couldn’t keep himself from chuckling. “The book was _Who Governs Britain?_.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and a small smile appeared. “You certainly have an exaggerated opinion as to my influence.”

“It was that or fake celery. But I didn’t want celery to clash with your home’s décor, offending an uptight political type, and causing some international incident.”

“How thoughtful of you.” Mycroft’s tone lifted at the end to an almost question. He returned the arrangement to its box. “Once I return and if you are amenable, you could see if your choice in artificial flower colour was appropriate. 

“Maybe over another exchange?”

“Yes. Preferably this one would not be anything living or formally living.”

“I’ll think of something,” said Greg. There were plenty of other Valentine’s Day gifts they could exchange, but which one?


End file.
